


Unstoppable

by IdiotCrusader



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Nano Boost, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks, Past Relationship(s), Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, platonic ana76
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-08-20 08:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20224999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdiotCrusader/pseuds/IdiotCrusader
Summary: Ana creates the nano boost, Jack develops a drug problem, and they both miss Gabriel.





	1. powered up

**Author's Note:**

> This originally started off as a joke but ended up as Crack Treated Extremely Seriously. No fun allowed, just drugs, sorrow and past R76. Bonus platonic ana76 (implied Ana/Gabe, too).

The first time Ana offers it to him, Jack almost says no.  
  
Almost.  
  
They’re still in Cairo, the air is hot and heavy around them like a dusty suffocating blanket, and the wounds on his back he got from fighting Rea… _ Gabe _ are still horribly sore. Ana patches him up the best she can, and it’s not enough, and Jack doesn’t know why it isn’t. He’s supposed to be a supersoldier, isn’t he? His wounds are meant to heal on their own, quick.  
  
Which they don’t. Right. It’s an inconvenience at best, an absolute disaster at worst, because bad guys aren’t particularly inclined to give them a break, and don’t even get him started on whatever the hell Reaper might be up to while Jack is wasting time holed up in Ana’s hideout, sick as a dog.  
  
Ana’s thinking that too, he can tell. They keep clashing in resigned, bitter arguments about it. "We can’t just keep waiting", Jack would say. That would earn him a deep frown and the same lecture as ever. "You’re not ready, Jack. I don’t want to watch you get yourself killed by some thug that landed a lucky shot because you were in no state to fight back." The part of it Jack hates the most is that she’s right. He can’t beat an argument that is true.  
  
Fighting each other, even if it’s just words, not the weapons, is more than both of them can handle after being apart for so long. That’s why at some point, instead of falling into gloomy silence, Ana suddenly says:  
  
“There might be a solution. It will be temporary, but it will get you going.”  
  
_ It _ turns out to be one of her… concoctions, the lovechild of stolen technology and Ana’s amateur yet ingenious creative craftsmanship. She sourly mentions Jack wouldn’t want to know how she put together this particular recipe or what it took to come into possession of ingredients, and Jack figures it’s polite not to pry. Ana calls it _ nano boost_. Jack holds an ampule up to the lamplight; it looks thick and silvery and not particularly safe.  
  
“I didn’t really have a chance to… test it, not properly,” Ana admits, reluctant. “It’s a stimulant, and it does its job, that’s for sure. Makes you faster, stronger, sends your pain tolerance skyrocketing. Good for quick and heavy combat, in for a strike, out for rest. Doesn’t last very long, you see. Although I have no idea how well it will fare in a modified body like yours.”  
  
Jack surveys the ampule again. In for a strike, huh? Sounds nice, and in his army experience, nice perks like that come with a huge price. If anything, the supersoldier program made him wary of performance-enhancing substances. He’s seen what these things can do, how fast they can burn through a perfectly healthy soldier, and no benefits should be worth it.  
  
Too bad he’s not in a position to be picky.  
  
“You can say no, you know.” Ana takes the vial from his hand; their fingers brush together. She would understand. Of course, she would. In the whole world, there are exactly two people in whom Jack has ever confided his fears and memories left from the program, one being Ana.  
  
The other one is currently out on a killing spree for Talon, busy being a traitor and a walking dead. Or something. Good fucking God, Gabe.  
  
Jack shakes his head slowly. No. This… stimulant is an advantage, and beggars can’t be choosy. They’re so tight on cards up their sleeve at the moment, anything that can even remotely give them an edge would suffice.  
  
“Just this one time can’t be too bad, right?” Ana tries to reassure. “If it helps, I’ve tried that on myself the first time around. It feels good while it lasts. You can try to enjoy it.”  
  
Jack supposes he has to settle for small comforts.

* * *

_ Good _ turns out to be the understatement of the century.  
  
The effects are… like nothing Jack’s ever felt before. He'd held certain expectations (Ana never does anything halfway, after all), but whatever he thought he’d get is surpassed by a long shot. Ana gives him an injection right before they get into action, and it doesn’t take long for the fire to spread through his veins. The pain is gone so quickly, so completely, that Jack can barely remember where it used to hurt. Ana hands him his rifle, and it weighs nothing in his grasp. There’s not a thing that’s scary about the feeling, nothing disorienting.  
  
Too much, too fast, and instead of being overwhelming, it’s almost natural.  
  
The mission is a blur but in the best way. Jack moves like he’s two times lighter and three times more agile the man of his size and age is meant to be; nobody can _ touch _ him, and when a lucky hit does land, there’s no pain; nothing can hold him and nothing can slow him down. They’re cutting through the enemy like a hot blade through butter, and he’d be damned if somewhere deep in his head he isn’t convinced that at these moments he’s invincible. A soldier on a mission; a living weapon wielded with no hesitation.  
  
Jack loves, loves, _ loves _ being just that.  
  
It’s over before he knows it, and he’s breathing heavier through the filters of the mask, and the stitches on his back feel wet and gross, but nothing in the world could take the fact that Jack just relieved his best times ever away from him. Holy fucking god, he loves Ana so much. He’s a fool for ever doubting her.  
  
Ana’s meds don’t just feel good. They feel _ amazing_.  
  
They leave the scene triumphant.  
  
“Doing alright, commander?” Tugging off her mask to take a deeper breath as soon as they’ve made their safe escape and no one’s around, Ana cracks him a small, weary smile; the mission is a success, and the wonderful feeling swelling in Jack’s chest has him convinced their next one would be a hit, too. He hasn’t been optimistic in ages, but right now, he feels like they can do anything.  
  
“Feeling young again,” Jack chuckles, action-drunk and basking in the afterglow; he feels oddly liberated. The boost is wearing off, just like Ana said, but there are no unpleasant aftershocks, and he still can’t shake off the giddy mood. “You got the good stuff, Amari. Don’t know why I resented this idea so much. You made it, right? Then _ of course _ it’s fine. I trust you with my life.”  
  
For the tiniest of moments, Ana’s smile seems to falter, and then she nods as if having convinced herself of something. She looks away and sighs.  
  
“A shame we agreed on it being a one-time deal, then.”  
  
They both know that’s not true. There is lots to be done, and getting rid of that one thing that could help them power through their two against the world struggles would be plain… short-sighted. An amateur move, throwing your advantage away. What’s the harm, anyway? He’s not even hungover. His supersoldier body must’ve taken to being given an additional kick really well, Jack decides. They’re damn lucky Ana is a fucking genius.  
  
“It’s almost like I needed a reminder why I love having you by my side so much,” Jack says jokingly, and Ana huffs at him, falling back into the contentment of the job well done:  
  
“So what, you only appreciate me when I hand out the high?”  
  
“Of course not.” He wishes he could take off his mask too, return the smile; there’s warmth to his voice he’s been longing to express in a long time. “It’s good to have you back, Ana.”  
  
Frankly, Jack cannot wait for the next time they’d need the boost. Whatever concerns and suspicions he had before, whatever distrust he might’ve harboured towards using stimulants, they seem so irrelevant and unnecessary now. The animated excitement dissolves his worries, irrational and realistic alike, leaving behind a soft, pleasant haze.  
  
If that’s how the comedown from the boost feels like, Jack wishes he could do it sooner.

* * *

They receive Winston’s message and somewhat reluctantly answer the recall. The Gibraltar base is just the same way Jack remembers it and nothing like it at the same time. The people are different. The corridors and barracks are filled with life again, but instead of well-trained, organised agents, they house a bunch of outcasts from all over the place.  
  
Some are painfully familiar. Some are new. A few are so, so young, hardly older them McCree was when he got pulled outta trouble and the looming life sentence and into Blackwatch. Doesn’t matter. All of them are _ soldiers _ now, Jack’s soldiers, even though he’s not in command anymore, and he hates it. He never wanted to lead again, especially not leading fucking _ children _ into combat, but it’s all they got.  
  
McCree is there, too. He’s worse for wear, rugged and moody, but he is alive and _ there_, and miraculously he blames neither Jack nor Ana for staying dead for so long. Jack can’t stand thinking what he must’ve been through, all alone, thinking every single person he let himself consider family was dead or devastated or god knows where. All the guilt makes Jack sick to the stomach.  
  
He pulls Jesse into a hug and only lets go when Ana squeezes his shoulder, gentle yet firm. Jack backs up, embarrassed, but he knows one thing for sure: he isn’t going anywhere this time, and he would do anything in his power to protect every single one of them.  
  
Jesse, Genji, Lena, Angela, even Fareeha, they’re all back. The new kids, too. Jack doesn’t get along easily, but he sure as hell isn’t letting anything happen to his new team.  
  
What’s so wrong if he needs a little help in doing so?  
  
Nano boost fixes really do give him that very edge he needs to keep on top of his game. As long as he can continue pulling off this sort of performance, they’re fine. Doing great, actually. Jack leads every mission himself, and while not every objective is a hit, he always gets his team back in one piece. His aim is steady, and his moves are as swift and smooth as ever; his body really feels like it’s worthy of being called _ enhanced _ for the first time in years. The kids notice, too, although Jack never explains the full story to them. Best to let them think his supersoldier abilities stood the test of time and age.  
  
Things are going quite well.  
  
Then the cravings start.  
  
At first, they’re weak, barely noticeable. Jack doesn’t truly realise what they are. Sure, the comedowns from the boost get slightly more uncomfortable, but perhaps his body is just getting worn out from frequent use. His wounds heal a little slower and hurt a little more after the missions, but maybe he just needs to pace himself better - they’ve been through a lot lately. He starts getting mood swings, spending his days being gloomy and irritable; that’s fine too - he’s had his ups and downs before. It’s a shame he can’t be a nice, pleasant person he used to be once, at least around Ana and the kids, but he’d take their safety over friendship any day. If he needs to be rough and uptight to protect them, he would be.  
  
Jack takes the adverse effects for bad luck because he’s not supposed to feel all that great anyway, to be honest. His body tries to remind him he’s old and fucked up; what else is new?  
  
Except it gets worse - slowly and inevitably, like a steamroller.  
  
Winston runs a communal mess hall now, but Jack finds himself skipping meals more often than not. He’s never been picky, but right now nothing makes him feel particularly hungry. When he does come, it’s just to feel less isolated. Jack forces oversweetened tea down his throat when someone watches (and _ why _ do they have to watch him as if they know something he doesn’t, again?) and throws the leftovers of his dinner (most of it) away while the person in question - Angela, it’s always Angela - looks the other way. Nausea comes and goes with the small, annoying tremors. Jack goes off to sleep on an empty stomach and lies still, staring in the dark, for hours, waiting for sleep to come and take him. It’s mostly futile.  
  
It would’ve been worrying if Jack had time to worry. He fights, and he scouts, and he takes command when he needs to, even though Winston is _ technically _ in charge, and it’s all a swirl of exhausting responsibility and business to take care of and danger and there’s never time to take a break and think back.  
  
When Jack manages to slip into an uneasy doze, it’s plagued by nightmares. Jesse, bleeding out in his arms. Lena, fading away, her chronal accelerator blown to pieces. Hana, not making it out of her mecha in time and going out with a blast. All because Jack wasn’t fast enough, strong enough, just _ enough _ to protect them.  
  
Another fix takes these fears away, as well.  
  
It still feels good, yes, but not just in a physical way. It calms him down, gets his mind on point. Everything seems clearer, untainted by worry. It sends determination, the kind Jack hasn’t felt in _ decades _ since his very youth, pumping through his veins, and it works _ wonders_.  
  
Jack can tell Ana is getting unhappy with him, but he can’t quite figure out why. They’ve got the lab now, and Angela’s medical bay has most of the ingredients readily available. It’s no harder than putting a dose together out there in Cairo. It can’t be the inconvenience.  
  
Is she worried, then? In Jack’s opinion, she needn’t be.  
  
He can stop anytime. Jack just chooses not to, and why would he do otherwise? Their war, their _ work_, is never over. He’s not that young anymore, and running errands or their usual violent sorts is getting tiring. He _ is _ tired. Jack hates pitying himself, but he can very well be realistic about it. His body just isn’t cutting it anymore: he gets exhausted, he’s been injured far too many times, his reflexes are slipping more and more frequently. It hurts everywhere, every day.  
  
Ana’s perfect little cure takes that pain away.  
  
“Don’t you think you’re too reliant on that?” Ana would sigh, cleaning up a patch of skin on his arm with a sterile smelling cotton ball.   
  
She always administers the injection herself, and the vials with nano boost are kept in her room with her other supplies. Jack thinks it’s ridiculous. They’re all allies here, aren’t they? What’s gonna happen, someone would _ steal _ the meds? Unheard of. Jack’s cautious himself, but even to him, that seems like paranoia.  
  
“I’m reliant on my visor too,” Jack would snap. “What’s so different about it?”  
  
He’s aware he keeps getting defensive. So what? No one likes being fussed over like they’re incompetent; Jack has the right to be annoyed.  
  
He’s doing fine, he’s in complete control, and her concern just makes him feel… not trusted. And that stings, from Ana more than anyone. It hurts to think she would even suspect he would purposefully seek drug-aided pleasure, or let something this serious get out of hand when they're already neck-deep in trouble, or… just get involved with addiction at all. 

Jack Morrison is just not that sort of person, you see. He's not exactly the golden poster boy of his glory days, but he’d never let himself get so low to become a bloody junkie. 

He’s absolutely sure of it.


	2. powered down

Jack startles awake, his body convinced he's just about to suffocate; clutching his heaving chest, he feels his heart do crazy flutters under his grip. 

It's dark and quiet. He's still in his quarters on Gibraltar, nothing’s happening, and he's safe.

And it's not enough to calm him down.

Shuddering, Jack drags himself upright. The same full-body ache that bothered him for a while now is more intense than ever, and his limbs feel lead-heavy; moving is harder than it should be. His bed looks like he's been tossing and turning all night long, and the thin covers are damp with sweat. He feels feverish, sick, but most of all - acutely terrified.

Why? What's _ wrong _ with him? 

Stumbling over his own legs, Jack manages to get up and find a shaky balance. He needs… needs to go somewhere, get something his memory refuses to identify. 

Ana’s room. _ That's _ where he needs to go.

Strangely, desperately determined, Jack painstakingly makes his way through the corridors. He's lucky that no one’s there to bother him in that late hour - he must be quite a sight; not that he cares. Something akin a direction, a goal keeps churning inside of his hazy mind. Ana’s room. What does he need from her? Ana's room, what’s there, what's so important that he feels he might die without it…

There's a memory related to Ana that keeps resurfacing, and Jack tries to piece it together because he has nothing better to do while hoping his legs carry him to the right destination. There was an argument, wasn't it? Him and Ana, they don't argue very often, but this time escalated, and Jack felt so annoyed and offended back then but now, thinking about it makes him numb and, for some reason, ashamed.

What was that about? 

Jack remembers asking for something, and Ana telling him no, and that… was in the morning, and now it’s the night time and Jack cannot remember what the fallout was about but he’s standing at Ana’s front door.  
  
Feeling around the door for the handle, he accidentally pokes the code lock, and it beeps, lighting up red. Right. The… the code. Everyone’s got their own, but the officers know the master combination that can unlock any door, safety reasons and all. 

Jack doesn’t hesitate because he hardly thinks of his actions; before even a hint of a doubt, of a _ question _ of what makes him think he should use the master code to break into Ana’s room, creeps into his hazy mind, his fingers are already entering the digits. His hands tremble so much he misses the button a few times, flinching at the angry beeps the lock makes at him. But he gets it in the end. He does.  
  
The locking mechanism gives a low hiss, releasing its grip on the door as it slides to the side, revealing the dark, quiet room behind it.  
  
Acting on pure instincts, Jack slips inside, leaving a gap behind himself.  
  
He’s been to Ana’s place several times before, mostly for the boost injections; her supplies are kept in the cabinet beside her bed. Jack finds himself drawn to it like a moth to the lamplight. It takes a mere blink, and now he’s right in front of that very same cabinet, staring at the locked door.  
  
He still, to this very point, has a very vague idea why he’s there.  
  
What is it he’s looking for, again? Confusion swirls in his mind like muddy water, interrupted by the flashes of reality: the unsure, wobbly steps he takes towards the cabinet, the walls of the empty room closing in, Ana’s picture of Pharah she keeps at the bedside. Except it’s not Pharah, it’s _ Fareeha _ still. The child in the picture looks like she’s staring at Jack with disgust.  
  
Nobody’s home. Is Ana on patrol, then? Keeping watch? Where did she go and when will she be back? Something tells Jack he doesn’t want her to be back just yet. He isn’t here to talk things through with Ana, he came here

  
to get 

  
his 

  
_ fix_.  
  
That’s _ it_.  
  
That should be the revelation that finally gets through the brain fog to him. Jack should feel horrified, should turn back and get out of Ana’s room before she can return and see what he’s done. He should realise how far he’s gone and stop--  
  
With a horrible loud creak, he forces the cabinet open with his bare hands and stares at the empty shells, completely numb.  
  
The sound of the door reopening makes him, still bewildered by his discovery, turn around. His eyes skim across the familiar silhouette in the doorway - _ Ana _ \- and stop at the dark circle right at his chest level. A gun. Jack freezes like a deer in the headlights, staring at it.  
  
The pure absurdity of it shocks him into a moment of clarity.  
  
It’s too late but late is better than never. Jack thinks of himself, standing in the middle of Ana’s room, dishevelled and looking completely insane, having broken in like a thief. Held at the gunpoint by his oldest, most loyal friend. For a perfectly good reason, too. Jack wouldn’t blame Ana for thinking he’s unstable.  
  
Ana refused him a dose this morning, and now, she catches him red-handed trying to steal it from her private quarters, completely delirious. His stomach is twisting, and this time, it isn’t the cravings. There’s nowhere to run; Jack just stands there, letting the shame sink in.  
  
Oh, he’s so _ fucked_.  
  
“Jack, is that you?” The surprise in Ana’s voice is so mild it might as well not be there. She expected it, a small bitter voice in Jack’s head says. She knew you would do that eventually. Just couldn’t say when. “What exactly are you doing in my room at three in the morning?”  
  
At this point, that’s a rhetorical question. 

“I…” Jack’s throat tightens as he slowly raises his hands in a show of surrender. He doesn’t know what to say.  
  
Ana puts the gun (gungungun) away just as slowly and takes a step closer. The door shuts behind her back, cutting off every possible disturbance. Without the soft whine of ventilation from the corridor, the silence in the room falls deafeningly heavy. 

“I took my medical supplies away. Angela has them. For safekeeping.”  
  
Distrust hurts. What hurts worse is knowing it’s completely justified.  
  
Ana comes to stand right beside him; when she raises her hand, Jack barely resists the urge to flinch away. She pretends not to notice. Her gloveless palm cups the side of his face, but no warmth seeps through the skin. He might have gone numb. His body isn’t in its most cooperating state right now; his legs feel shaky, and his heart is still going a mile a minute.  
  
He _ really _ needs a fix.  
  
He really _ wants _ to feel Ana’s hand against his face.  
  
“Take the damn thing off, will you?” Ana sighs. “I want to look you in the eyes when we have that talk. Did you fall asleep wearing it again?”  
  
_ It...? _ Jack’s own hands fly up to touch his cheeks, and sure enough, his visor is still on. How did he not notice it was there all along? Probably the same way it took him so long to realise he was in withdrawal, Jack thinks sarcastically. He hasn’t been the sharpest tool in the shed lately. Sleeping with the visor, though… that’s not new.  
  
Jack’s hands barely cooperate (need a fix), so Ana has to get the mask off for him. She’s done this before; her hands find places to press and pull with familiar ease.  
  
Without it, it’s unsurprisingly easier to breathe. There is barely any light, but the glint of the electronic clock on the bedside table hurts Jack’s eyes (needa_fix_). It’s harder to see without his visor than he remembers. How long has he gone without taking it off this time? Jack hardly bothers anymore. Wearing it too much gives him migraines, but he _ needs _ it. His eyes just haven’t been the same after the explosion.  
  
His own trail of thought, the pure rhetorics of it, seems laughably similar to the one he’s used to justify getting a shot of the boost again and again, except he fails to see the humour of the situation. Jack rapidly blinks a few times to let his useless eyes adjust to the darkness; he feels Ana’s gaze on him.  
  
Where Jack’s vision is nowhere near as good as it should be, Ana’s as sharp as ever, even with one eye. A sniper’s always a sniper, after all. Jack admires her for that and for many things more, but right now, it’s making him uncomfortable.  
  
Ana cups his cheek again, forcing their eyes to meet. 

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?”  
  
Jack takes that a rhetorical question since he’s got no good answer to give. He’s got no time to waste by staring at his own expression - and his appearance isn’t what Ana’s trying to get at, anyway. Jack utters an automatic, thoughtless excuse before he can even think of what he’s saying and winces at the clear futileness of it: 

“When I want to stop, I can.”  
  
He doesn’t even know what he _ means _ anymore. To stop using, stop running away from the serious conversations and honest admissions, just stop to look at what he’s been doing. Ana used to say her drug makes you unstoppable. At this point, Jack is starting to suspect it’s not a good thing. 

Ana looks at him with pity.

“Jack. You know who says things like that?”

He knows. God, he knows he’s addicted, and it’s humiliating but it _ should _ be. He deserves it. It doesn’t make Ana’s next words sting any less.  
  
“We have so much on our hands,” she says. “We just cannot afford to deal with you doing this to yourself.”  
  
She brings out that tone of hers, too. That special expression of motherly disappointment mixed with concern that Jack absolutely cannot stand. Gabe used to hate it, too, Jack remembers that vividly, but it worked so well. Ana had that… effect on them; she was so good at helping them meet each other in the middle, at talking some sense into them. Without her, their connecting element, they just couldn’t find the same common ground. Kept clashing in arguments that didn’t even matter until the tensions ran so high they _ exploded_.  
  
Jack feels frail; like there’s a string within him holding the pieces of his soul together, and it’s so thin and quivering under strain and so, so close to snapping.  
  
Jack thinks of Gabe, with his rotten face (he didn’t get to see it but Ana told him, and Jack’s imagination took care of the rest) and the black suffocating smoke and the Reaper persona and the _ anger_, and--

“Well, I’m sorry I'm a _ bloody disgrace_!”

His voice rings in a small room like he’s yelling inside a tin can. Panting, he stares at the floor; Ana lets him calm down a few, and then: 

“Despite what you might think or want, I’m not Gabriel. You don’t have to shout at me.”  
  
She might’ve as well taken the terminal shot at him with that gun of hers. 

Jack’s legs give out. He barely registers getting unsteady, and then Ana’s hands help him to lower himself onto the floor. She sits down on her knees right next to him and offers her shoulder for support; Jack mindlessly leans onto it. God, but he is tired. He _ hurts_.

They sit in darkness and silence, motionless. Ana does not try to comfort him, and Jack doesn’t reach out to her, either. Eventually, he rasps just to disturb the heavy, thick silence: 

“What now?”

Ana contemplates for a minute.  
  
“You’ll need to talk to Angela. She’d help you get clean,” she decides. Jack can only weakly nod in agreement. The thought of it makes him internally cringe, but the cat’s already out of the bag, and now the consequences are unavoidable. At least that way he’d be working towards fixing the situation rather than digging himself a deeper hole. “I’m sure she’s already aware of it to some extent. I can go with you if that helps.”  
  
Nothing helps, not with something this shameful and pathetic, but Jack appreciates the thought. A weaker, darker part of him keeps stirring at the back of his mind, telling him to refuse altogether, to keep doing exactly what he’s been at, to break into the medical wing and just take the nano vials and tell Ana to fuck off and let him decide for himself how he wants to ruin what’s left of him--  
  
Jack closes his eyes and draws a deep, steadying breath.

In, out. Like that.  
  
“I know you didn't think it would get this bad,” Ana says, surprising him enough to interrupt his thoughts. “I don't blame you.”  
  
Jack can’t hold back a bitter chuckle. Oh yeah? Much relief in white lies, is it. 

“_I _ blame myself.”

“Oh, I know, trust me. You sure make your issues with guilt obvious.” Sometimes he forgets how Ana’s bitterness can match his own, how cynical and sardonic she’s become. Ana shakes her head. “I knew coming back would be hard for you. Ever since we met… Ever since we saw Gabriel, I had to keep in mind how rough it would be on you, and I still gave you the boost… I regret offering it to you in the first place. I saw the red flags and chose to look away... Some of the fault is mine. I am, want it or not, responsible for you now.”  
  
The last thing Jack wants is to burden Ana with the guilt he feels now. It’s not _ her _ fault he’s been falling apart ever since they’ve met Gabe, or that his self-control is apparently good for nothing these days. Jack hates how easily she takes the blame - but she always saw it that way. Responsible for the team, responsible for getting them back safely. Some would deem Ana abandons her duties easily, with the way it took her so long to come back after the Amelie incident; Jack knows better. These duties are a heavy cross to carry, though. Sometimes, an unbearable one.  
  
Unconsciously picking at the scars littering the skin around his eyes, he mumbles:

“God, don't talk to me like that.”  
  
Ana stops his hand before it does too much damage; holds it in hers.

“Like what? Like I care about you?”  
  
That’s just unfair, Jack thinks to himself. That’s an impossible one to beat.  
  
Ana lets that sink in, and then seemingly calmly adds:  
  
“You know, when I was on my own I couldn't sleep without my sleep darts. Kept them next to my bed all the time, every single night. And then flashbacks got so bad they barely worked anymore. It's… easier, now that I have all of you here, near me.”

Her mouth quivers slightly. She is, Jack can see it so clearly, painfully honest with him, and the best Jack can do in return - when did words of sympathy become so _ hard _ for him? - is to be honest back.

“We’re talking now, and all I can think about is… asking you to go to Angela’s to grab a fix, alright? Under the excuse of making the talking easier, because it would let me think clearer or some shit.” Like a spoiled child lying to get ice cream before dinner. The lie is so silly, so see-through the shame stops Jack from trying to pull it off, but it’s there, on his tongue, and it refuses to leave. He shakes his head in utter frustration. “All the _ damn _ time.”  
  
When he looks up again, Ana wears a thin, sombre smile.   
  
“We’ve really gone from bad to worse, didn’t we? All three of us.”  
  
Can’t argue with that.  
  
Now that she mentions it - him - again, Jack thinks he’s got another confession to make. Might as well, right? Being frank with someone he trusts is harder than he remembers, but it starts coming more naturally again. Like riding a bike, except messing up in the trust department hurts a lot more than scrapping your knees on the pavement.  
  
Jack says:  
  
“I really miss him, Ana. I fucking _ miss _ him so much.”  
  
Ana closes her only eye in a brief show of sorrow.  
  
This is something Jack couldn’t have said to anyone else but Ana. After Zurich, ever since the whole mayhem with the explosion, Talon and Gabriel’s supposed betrayal, Jack has tried his damndest to stay mad, which also meant staying determined. For the soldier kids on the base and even some of the old guard, Reaper is nothing more than an enemy, a target they have to eradicate, a symbol of hostile force they can pour all their hatred into.  
  
For Jack, Gabe is somebody he had loved for years. These things don’t go away easily, but admitting to it in front of the others feels… far too intimate, yes, but it also feels like a betrayal of the agenda they’re supposed to be on. The others have every right to be angry. They wouldn’t get it, and it’s not their job to try.  
  
Ana is... different. She understands.  
  
Jack presses closer to her, letting his eyes slip closed.  
  
“I feel like a goddamn failure.”  
  
For not being able to hold Overwatch together, not finding Ana in time, not saving Gabe. For having to think of children as his subordinates. For the addiction. Jack could make a list, and it would describe a good half of his whole sorry life in extensive coverage. 

“I know.” Ana _ would _ know, of course, with the way she left her child behind. “It gets easier eventually.”  
  
Nothing really happens after that. They fall silent again, contemplating each other’s words and the whole thing that just happened, including the fact it was the first time they talked properly in ages. Jack doesn’t know about Ana, but he feels relieved - even if physically, he’s hardly any better. He contemplates getting up and leaving and ends up immediately hating this thought. His head is settled on Ana’s shoulder; Jack could drift off to sleep like that.  
  
“Stay here, with me, tonight,” Ana says, instead. Jack doesn’t - physically _ can’t _ \- refuse her.  
  
Ana’s bed is just barely large enough to fit both of them. Jack ends up pressed between the wall and Ana’s smaller body, cuddled close to her side, arms wrapped around her in a tight hug. The single cover she pulls over them is ratty and thin, but Ana’s body is like a furnace, as if she carries a piece of her hot and distant motherland with her. Jack craves that warmth, can’t help but huddle closer to it; she doesn’t seem to mind, returning his embrace.  
  
The tremors that wracked his body slowly die out, and the tension-locked muscles relax. The cravings don’t go away, but being close to Ana somehow makes them easier to bear.  
  
Jack presses his face into her shoulder as she strokes his hair is slow, rhythmic motions, humming a melody he remembers from the old, better times.  
  
Returning to these memories fills Jack with deep, almost visceral, sense of trust and _ love_.  
  
“I really do love you,” he mutters when that feeling pushing up in his throat refuses to be contained; his hands clench on the fabric of her simple standard-issued nightgown. “Thank all gods you’re alive. I’m sorry I never really told you before.”  
  
Ana presses a soft, _ soft _ chaste kiss on top of his silver hair.  
  
“I _ know_, Jack. I’m grateful you made it, too.”  
  
He and Ana, they were never lovers in the common sense of that word, and to the best of Jack’s knowledge, neither were Ana and Gabe. But they were _ close_, as close as people can get without full commitment. It’s not that sex would’ve somehow ruined it - they just never felt any desire to engage in it, for some reason. But they shared a lot of physical intimacy, did lots of things Jack wouldn’t trust anyone else to do. They would clean each other’s wounds, hold each other for warmth and comfort and sleep in the same bed.  
  
Sometimes - all three of them.  
  
That _ sometimes _ meant, at some point, routinely. It’s still strange at times, falling asleep in an empty bed. Even now, Jack misses the warmth and physicality of the third body, wishes it would be Gabe on the other side of the bed instead of the chilling cold wall. Still, getting Ana back is… a blessing, no less, and Jack wishes he could appreciate that sooner, - must he really screw up so badly to realise something so simple? - but it’s true.  
  
There’s something on his mind he has to share before the thought passes, dissolved by sleep and the million of other worries swarming in his head. 

“I will have to go after him eventually…” Jack starts drowsily and waits to make sure he has Ana’s attention; continues in a slightly stronger voice: “And I will. There's no other choice. But I can't help thinking… That's always been our problem, not knowing when to quit. If only we could persuade him to stop, just enough to talk to him…”  
  
He doesn’t see Ana’s expression, cannot say whether she agrees or not, but gives in when she gently touches his shoulder to get him to stop talking anyways. 

“That's what _ you _ should do right now. Stop thinking. We will talk in the morning. Try to rest.”

Jack doesn’t protest. What he wanted to say is already said, and there’s not much more he can contribute; the exhaustion comes back, but this time, it’s weighing him down like a heavy blanket. Ana resumes her humming, and her voice isn't quite what it used to be but it's beautiful nonetheless. Jack lets himself get lost in it, as the memories, thoughts and pictures in his mind are calming down, slowly coming to a stop.


End file.
